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| Our tree |
My eyes were large and bright, hope poured in like a tidal wave. "You did, mommy? You did get me a present?"
"Of course," mom replied, appalled that I would forget, heartbroken that I would believe she hadn't.
"What did you get me?" I asked, looking up at her with a grateful, excited, expectant expression on my small face.
"I got you the...." she stopped short. "She" had worked her butt off to afford a dollhouse I'd wanted that she could not afford, but "Santa" had given it to me. The purchase of that gift, along with Santa's thoughtful stocking stuffers, had left her broke. There was not a penny for another gift.
So, she had to let me believe she had gotten me nothing. But not after first flittering my little heart with the hope that she had.
This is a Christmas memory gifted to me by my mom. I don't truly remember it, but she tells the story with the passion of someone who still feels the heartbreak, and I can picture it.
Several years later, my mom has six kids - my four young adopted brothers newly part of our family - and Santa still visits. The magic of him is still my favourite part of the season but my sister is a little afraid. Why does he judge us? Why does he come into our houses when we are asleep? My brothers are all on the autism spectrum and extreme energy reactors. The magic of Santa is exciting, the fear of Santa is confusing, the lie causes adults to behave in-congruently, and the junk food (even though Santa seemed to learn all about healthier snacks at the same time that my malnourished brothers were adopted, such a magic man he is!) exacerbated all the confusion. It soon became time for mom to tell us the truth about Santa. But I, who refused to lose the magic of that man, chose to repress the memory of finding out. I went two more years believing, far beyond any of my peers. It did not cause problems because I was quiet, a little bit snooty, about my belief. I didn't argue his existence but, instead, knew I was a little bit more in touch with magic than my companions. A little bit wiser. A little bit better.
When I allowed myself to listen to the true story about Santa, the repressed memory flooded back and I admit, I felt embarrassed. Also, I recognized how a repressed memory can be completely forgotten yet still impact you. It was interesting.
Many years later, I was a mom! My first son was born not long before Christmas and I couldn't wait to begin the magic of Christmas traditions with him! I kept my favourite parts, the magic of Santa and stockings, and didn't keep the parts that hadn't gone as well, the judgement of Santa and the extra expensive gift being from Santa rather than me.
I figured I'd fixed it. Christmas was only wonderful now!
But, no. My oldest son was (and is) a lot like me. The magic was powerful and meaningful for him. He held onto the reality of Santa Clause hard, and I liked to sell it. It felt mystic and fun. There was magic and pretend. It was a game I was playing and the world sort of played along. Encouraged it.
But my second oldest son was less impressed. He is far more skeptical. He was not scared like my sister, he was just unconvinced. Seemed too much like malarkey to him.
One Christmas we were sitting in an airport waiting for our flight home after visiting my mom for the holidays when my second oldest son said straight up, "Mom, tell me the truth. I have to know. Is Santa real?"
It was the way he said "I have to know" that frightened me. He had to know, of course he did. It was all a lie and I'd been telling it like it was not only true, but imperative that we "believe" for the sake of the magic. For the sake of Christmas.
My oldest son, though, his brother, was nearby and less certain that he had to know. He was afraid, I could see it all over him. He didn't want me to leave him out but he was so very afraid of my answer. It was all over him. I was heartbroken and afraid of my answer.
"Well, the magic is real, and part of the magic comes from the story of Santa, but Santa isn't real." Oh, man. My oldest son crumbled. He looked so pained. My second oldest son simply said, "I knew it. You shouldn't lie about it."
My oldest son, though, told me he had fought friends at school over this story. He said, "I told them my mom would never lie to me, so it has to be true. I knew you would never lie to me, I was sure you would never lie to me." I struggled to hold myself together there in that airport. I had tried to give my children magic but I had broke their trust. Broke their hearts.
My second oldest son hadn't actually had the same belief in me that his brother had. He was more willing to see my faults, and to mention them as well.
So, my oldest son had loved the magic and then been heartbroken by the truth. My second oldest son had been skeptical of the magic and confused by a world that clearly kept trying to lie to him.
My Christmas tradition was hurting them.
Luckily, I did a better job with my two younger sons by talking about the magic of Christmas as being about time off and family, and the story of Santa being a fun thing to pretend. It seemed to go okay, but I never quite got the spirit fully back.
Now, many many years later, my two oldest sons are fathers. They are building traditions with their children, my grandchildren. I want to be involved. I want to create traditions with and for them that awaken the magic of the season without making up lies, breaking their hearts, hurting their trust.
We have learned from our past missteps, and that's wonderful.
But I think it unlikely we aren't going to make mistakes now. We could do nothing at all, and that could hurt them. We could completely change it up and invent something wonderful but I bet later we'd learn how something about that hurt them, or some of them.
Particularly at the moment I'm struggling with figuring out how I can be with them during the holidays even though I can't be physically with them. We are too far apart, my funds are not impressive, and crossing the border is not simple for me. Hence, I want to think of something amazing I can do with them when we're not together.
I hope I come up with something that works. I hope they don't think many years from now, "My grandma didn't care enough about me to show up. She would just video call with some story I had to listen to, or some stocking stuffers I had to pretend I wanted her to mail me."
I hope I come up with a Christmas tradition that doesn't hurt the children.
That's what I hope, but I also know the magic of Christmas is largely about the magic of caring so much. Of trying, of telling a story, of singing the songs and leaving out snacks, of WANTING the magic because it connects us. It reminds us to feel wonderful.
So I'll try new traditions. The trying, I hope, will override too much of the hurt.
Happy Christmas Eve friends!!!
